The Forged Empire
by TheRipleyMystery
Summary: It is the time of Artur Hawkwing, Artur the High King, ruler of all the lands west of the Spine of the World. But as his Empire grows, so too do his enemies, and there is only one man he can turn to. An old ally, and an old enemy. But he, inexplicably, was stricken from all the histories. What happened to Artur's General? My take on an unexplored region of WoT history.
1. Something New

He had been asked many times what it was like to serve under the great Artur Hawking, Artur the High King, Artur the Great, ruler of all the lands west of the Spine of the World.

Most of the times, he would shrug, and say what he said to them all. "You have me confused with someone else." If that was not enough to dissuade them, then he had two options. In more polite company, it was usually enough to force a smile, and repeat again, amicably, that they were mistaken. In a place as dingy as the Ten Rings, he could get away with sweeping back his cloak, revealing the ivory handle of the dagger he always kept by his side. Of course, he was always the gentleman, and would flash them a winning smile as they backed away.

But there was something different about this one. A girl, maybe twenty years his junior, barely tall enough to rival his height in his chair. She was not a child, or she wouldn't be doing in a hole like this. She certainly was not one of the serving girls, they knew by now not to ask him that question. No, she was something else entirely. Her shoulder-length hair shone like gold in the dim light of the Ten Rings' common room.

He had been minding his own business, nursing the same drink he had ordered ever since he sat down. Wine. From Kharendor. All it took was a sip to sour his mood. _The land will be done for_ _when the grapes turn bad in Kharendor._ It was an old saying, something he had heard many times before. Well, he was not so sure about that first part, but he was certainly sure about that latter. Why they thought it was acceptable to cart this swill so far North was beyond him.

But, whatever they had done to the wine down in Kharendor, it was enough to get him thinking. It was something small, but it was the symptom of a greater problem. A problem he had felt in the past few months, through the stories he heard and the things he had experienced. But his train of thought was derailed when the golden-haired girl approached his table.

"What was it like?" She asked. He looked up from his drink, and saw that she did not belong in a place like this.

"What was what like?" He asked in return, settling back in his chair to the creak of wood. He eyed her up and down.

"Serving?"

"Serving?"

"Under Hawkwing."

He leaned towards her, resting an arm across his table. Tilting his head so his words were for her and for her only, he said, "There are a hundred and one other men who could tell you what it was like to serve under Hawkwing, girl. Light, a thousand. What do you think you'll hear from me that you haven't already heard from them?"

"I've heard the stories. There isn't a person alive who hasn't," she said. "But I'm not interested in stories. They so often stand leagues apart from the truth." She said, matter-of-factly.

"Girl, short of Hawkwing being the Creator made flesh, you can believe what they have to say. The stories about him are true enough." There was something strange about her. The way she spoke maybe. Insistent. But, also guarded. As if she was probing him.

"I'm not interested in 'true enough'," she said. Without asking she pulled out the chair across from him and sat down at his table.

He crossed his arms over his chest, and settled back into his chair. Around him, the common room carried on its drunken revelry. One of the commoners was getting married tomorrow. And the raucous din was loud enough to make even a normal conversation quiet.

"A sense of admiration I hear? Respect?"

"A sense of being able to see what's in front of my bloody eyes."

"I see."

"Look, girl—" He began.

"Elleran."

The name was enough to throw him off-balance, only for a second. _Elleran?_ "I don't care what your name is," he responded quickly, waving her off. _Light, if even her name's tripping you up..._ No. She was not 'tripping him up'.

"But names are so important, are they not?"

"Only when attached to important people."

"But surely does one's name not matter in _cementing_ their importance?" She shot back.

"Artur could have been named a thousand different names, and it would not have made a hair's difference in his _importance_." He said, stabbing a finger in her direction.

"So you know, Artur?" She asked, the corners of her mouth twitching in a smile.

"Hawkwing," he responded as he cursed himself mentally. _She was good. But that was only the first skirmish_.

"So," she said, after a moment of silence, "you knew him?"

"Of course I know him. Don't we all?"

"Yes, but you called him by his first name," she said, faking a frown of confusion, but at this point, he thought it safe to assume that everything she was doing was a ruse.

"A common mistake."

"Even I don't call him by his first name."

"Even?" He had caught her mistake, but... No, there was no satisfaction in that one. It was too obvious, too careless. She _wanted_ him to have that. "So, you know him then?"

"Don't we all?" She said, with a devilish smile. It made her eyes twinkle in the light.

His mind was racing. Close _to Artur. Status beneath him. Holds the man in reverance..._ _Elleran_ _?_ He shook his head. "The Light help you _and_ your father." He leaned in close, lowering his voice to a bare whisper. Channeling all his bite into his words, he hissed, "Has he told you your arrogance will cost you, _girl_?"

She smiled a smug smile.

He settled back into his chair.

"Your father know you're here?"

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"If he wants to talk, he can come himself. Until then," he stood up abruptly, the sound of his chair scraping back lost in the din of the common room. "Until then, you tell him he can burn." He snatched up his wine, and finished it in a single gulp. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he slammed the cup back onto the table, before turning and walking away.

Stepping through the door and into the cold, bitter night of the sleepy city of Toryaga, as far east as he could go in Basharande. The cold did not bother him, not anymore.

But, nevertheless, he felt like pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

* * *

 _Though sources that survived to this era are scarce, especially those regarding Hawkwing himself, we were fortunate enough to recover this one. This manuscript, unlike all the others we have found, finally corroborate the accounts we have within the Thirteenth Depository! It wasn't much, only a scrap of a scrap of the original text, but it was more than enough._

 _Finally, the name! And not a variation, not something passable, something that could be construed to mean the same thing, but the true name! Written_ exactly _as recorded in the Secret Histories._

 _It was found in a basement, in a village visited by the Dragon Reborn, some time after his face appeared over Falme. Funny, that the fortune of his ta'veren nature would extend to even the Browns of the Tower library. Even more so, that such fortune would remain intact even after Tarmon Gaidon._

 _The new Amyrlin was gracious enough to afford me some time away from the Tower to continue my research. It was not easy, convincing her to let me go, especially so soon after The Last Battle. I think, in the end, she merely let me go because she had more important things to worry about than the whereabouts of one of the Tower librarians._

 _But once I bring this back to her, she will see that it was all worth it! To find something like this, so long after its time... It is not much, certainly, but it proves a point of contention amongst many of the other Browns. And I will have been the one to find it!_

 _Light! Hawkwing's secret general!_

Extract from the journal of Alysella Tendar,

c. 1002 NE


	2. Something Different

It was time to be gone from Toryaga. Light burn him, it was time to be gone from Basharande entirely. _Where to next? Light, I'm tired of the cold._ Somewhere warm. Somewhere where Artur would never be able to bother him. He mounted his horse, hand falling instinctively on the handle of his mace, tucked between his saddlebags. When he realised what he was doing, he jerked his hand away, like pulling away from hot coals.

His gloved hand reached, instead, to pat the neck of his horse. Dawnbreaker was a magnificent animal, a horse to ride lightning. There were few things he had managed to keep. He was glad Dawnbreaker was among them. A white gelding, coat pure enough to blend into snow. Eager, the gelding pranced on the spot, ready to set off.

"Leaving so soon?" Came the sonorous voice of the girl who had confronted him in the common room. Now that he knew who she was, he wondered how he could ever have missed the royalty in her voice. A girl accustomed to loyalty, and power. Someone he did not want anything to do with.

She stood blocking the exit of the Ten Ring's stable, a fiendish smile on her face.

"Your father teach you how to be stubborn as well as foolish, girl?" He growled, walking his horse out of the stall. "Get out of the way."

"Or what?" She asked, her voice suddenly filled with false innocence, taunting him. "Will you run me down?" She said it as if she wanted him to do it. It sent a shiver down his spine.

He straightened. "I might," he said, bracing himself in the saddle as if Dawnbreaker was about to launch into a gallop.

"Do you _really_ hate my father so much?" She asked suddenly, as if to throw him off-balance. No, he knew her game. She wasn't that smart.

"Yes." A simple answer for a simple question. Her bright eyes never once wavered as he responded. She was studying him. Examining him. Like a hawk's eyes, glittering in the darkness. "Now get out of my way, girl."

She took one last look at him, and then, shrugging, stepped out of the way. The path into the chilly Basharande night was open. Pale moonlight cut a shaft of light on the stable's hay-strewn floor, the black outline of her shadow ruining the beauty it once held. He set his horse into a gentle walk. He made sure to ignore her as he left the stable.

A wind caught his cloak, the black fabric set flapping in the night. With a cry, he kicked his horse into a gallop, and raced off into the night.

The moon sat at its peak when he finally stopped to rest. Out of Toryaga he had taken a circuitous route, switching course erratically, cutting back on his own trail, doing everything he could to shroud his path. He did not want anymore surprises tonight. It was tiresome, and it was certainly not what he had expected to be doing tonight.

A bed. All this time, as he covered up his steps, all he could think about was a nice, warm bed. The beds at the Ten Rings were clean at least, a far sight cleaner than everything else in that hole of an inn. And warm. And there, he did not have to fish rocks out from underneath him while he tried to find a way to make sleeping on hard dirt seem somewhat comfortable. These problems were minor back when he was a younger man. When one knew nothing of luxury, it was not hard to live simply. But, the Wheel wove its mysterious pattern, and luxury had made him soft. _Light,_ _I do not mind being soft if it meant I did not have to sleep on the road anymore_.

South. Head far enough south, and he would eventually end up at the shores of the Sea of Storms.

As he set up his camp for the night in a secluded clearing, some few hours ride south of Toryaga, he could not help but wonder if it would be enough. He had thought that Artur would not be able to find him in Basharande. Would it be any different in the South? In Elan Dapor, or Balasun, or Kharendor? _How had that girl managed to find him_ _?_ The question lingered in his mind, festered there as he unfurled his bedroll onto the green grass. Bending over to lay it on the ground, he then stood up straight, hands massaging the small of his back, and looked up at the night sky.

Stars winked at him across a dark sea of black. The moon was already starting to begin its slow droop down. And suddenly, as if the moon was bearing down upon him, he felt as if he were twenty years older. A bone-deep weariness drew his body down, like the world was pressing down on him. His arms and legs felt limp. Within his chest, he felt as if there was a hole there. Something was missing, something had been ripped out from inside of himself. Like a hand had reached into his chest and snuffed out what was inside of him.

He sighed a sigh to hold all the world's woes.

As he began to settle onto his bedroll, a noise made him sit up straight. He stared off into the forest, trying to pinpoint the direction the noise had come from. He had heard something, he knew it.

* * *

Elleran froze as the old man sat up straight. His eyes seemed to be staring right at her. But, as she started to question whether or not he had seen her, he settled back down onto his bedroll. She let out the breath she had been unconsciously holding.

She watched him for a while afterwards, watching the old man toss and turn in the night, grumbling occasionally as he reached under himself to fling away a rock or a pebble beneath him. It was strange, being this close to a legend.

Stories. She had heard stories all her life. From her mother, from her father, from her nurses and from the few friends she had. But no story interested her as much as the story of the man right in front of her. There were many stories about him. And songs, and legends. Her father had told her some. No, most came from her father. As she grew, she began to wonder why he told her the stories. Whoever this man was, he was certainly not a part of Father's entourage anymore. His absence only made him all the more _alluring_. The stories of her father never succeeded in impressing. After all, he was only her father.

But this man, whoever he was, he was something unknown. Something beyond her own life. And that excited her to no end.

There were many stories about him. And songs, and legends. And she had heard almost every one. With each one she added to her collection, she more she wanted to meet him, the more she seemed to idolise him.

But, as she watched him sleep, she could not help but feel like she had been lied to.

Stories never told the parts where the heroes had to sleep, or try to sleep, or become so frustrated with trying that they stayed up all night anyway, staring up at a sky drowned in stars. Stories never said that heroes could grow old, or have more grey than black in their hair. The stories never said that heroes could have a face carved entirely in lines.

He was just a man. And something about that revelation... intrigued her.

* * *

 _A Revisionist? I take offense at that term._ _Laila is a revisionist, her and her theories. After_ Tarmon Gaidon, _she sees everything that has happened in the last few centuries as the work of the Forsaken, pulling their strings from the shadows._ _Never mind the fact that human history cannot be so easily boiled down to the machinations of a group of thirteen people, even if those thirteen were the Forsaken! And never mind the fact that we now have reason to believe that the Forsaken emerged from their imprisonment in 998 NE_.

 _Bloody woman!_

 _She is clearly biased, and has more than once found sources that support her conclusion as opposed to trying to find the conclusions from what is in front of her. I have read her work on the history of Mayenne. She has a blatant disregard for the methodology, it is as plain as day. The Browns made a mistake when they accepted her, I can say that with absolute certainty._

 _How I can stand to sleep under the same roof as her, much less share the library with her is something I simply cannot fathom._

 _A revisionist challenges the orthodoxy. I am doing no such thing. All I am doing is corroborating what we already know._

 _Artur Hawkwing's man was by his side, from the beginning, from his ascension in Free Year 939 up until the arrival of his advisor, Jalwin Moerad, in Free Year 973._

Extract from the journal of Alysella Tendar,

c. 1002 NE


	3. All True

He woke with a start as a piercing cry shattered the morning peace. With the grace he hadn't felt in years, he leapt to his feet, the dull fog of sleep banished in an instant. Eyes trained in the direction of the cry, he carefully crept his way to his saddle, placed on the ground only a few paces from where he slept. Dawnbreaker, hitched to a tree behind him, threw his head back and whinnied.

Reaching his saddle, his hand dove into his saddlebags and drew his black steel mace. His hand wrapped around the coarse ray-skin hilt, hand instinctively shifting to a familiar grip on the hefty three-pounder.

He watched the tree-line, eyes trying to peer into the darkness of the woods.

The sounds of the world faded. Bird song. The rustling of the trees. The ambient creak of the woods. Gone. Blood pounded in his ears. His vision seemed to _bend,_ the world distorting and twisting. Adrenaline flooded his veins, like a tidal wave of energy threatening to sweep him off his feet and carry him into nothingness. His muscles burned, alight with fire. And as soon as it came, it vanished.

Years of practise had made entering _ko'di_ as easy as breathing.

The world snapped back into pure focus. The grit of his ray-skin hilt felt like a thousand peaks and valleys beneath his fingertips. The air took shape and form, like a brilliant, swirling pattern revealing itself to him. His clothes felt impossibly rough against his skin.

He leapt forward, plunging into the forest.

* * *

Elleran ducked below the whistling sweep of a sword, flicked her wrist, a dagger flying past her fingers. Her attacker let out a gurgle, as his sword dropped with a dull thud to the forest floor. His clutching hands tried desperately to stem the flow of blood spilling over his fingers. She had little time revel in her victory. Rolling forward, she narrowly escaped another slash aimed at her neck.

Adrenaline carried her along on its ceaseless currents. She felt power surge through her muscles, felt faster and stronger than she ever did before. Fights she had been in before, but _never_ like this.

A spin carried her away from a blade, but another slash followed, too fast for her to see. It sliced across her arm, and she let out a cry. A boot slammed into her back, knocking her to the ground. The fall slammed the air out of her lungs. Her vision blurred as she gasped for air, struggling to even get a breath, even the smallest one.

She could barely see as her attackers crowded around her. Tears burned down her cheeks. The pain had long since left, replaced by a numbness spreading across her body. How many cuts had she taken? But Light, the Light burn them, they had to _earn_ those cuts. For every one they gave her, she gave back two.

 _Face it on your feet, or lie down dead_. Her father's lesson, so long ago, seemed to taunt her now. He made it sound like it was one or the other. She had done the first, and now she would do the latter. A smile spread across her bloodied face, and through gritted teeth, she forced a laugh.

A boot pressed against her stomach, an ugly face coming into focus above her. He smiled a smile that showed far too many teeth. _No! This would not be the last thing she saw!_

She jerked up, boot still pressed against her belly and slid a dagger, her last, through his ribs. He let out a sound of surprise. Looked down. Eyes widened. His jaw opened, as if to say something, perhaps to curse. All that came was blood, dripping down onto her face. Taking advantage of her surprise, Elleran lurching to her feet, yanking the sword from the man's limp hands. But the surge had gone. She felt slow, sluggish, air like cooled honey.

All she could manage were a few limp swings before something batted the sword from her hands. She could only jut hear the muffled thud of the sword hitting the ground. The world felt muffled, like there was a layer of cloth between her and everything around her. Thoughts, half-formed and incoherent, bubbled in a hazy soup in her skull. Her hands went up, clenched into fists. A small voice said her mind was wandering. She didn't need that to tell her. A hundred different thoughts swirled in her mind. Fields. Forests. The busy din of a city. The swishing of skirts against skirts. Her mother's voice. Her father's voice. _Face it on your feet, or lie down dead_. She shook her head as if that would help clear her mind.

She put her hands up, hunched her shoulders, kept her head down. It was all she could while trying to keep her mind coherent.

How many of them were there left? Five, she thought. But it was difficult. She saw double, the bodies of her attackers splintering, fragmenting, mirroring as they multiplied in her vision. In one moment there were five, then ten, and in the next twenty.

In front of her, one of them strode forward. Tall, dwarfing her by a head and a half. His silhouette cast her in shadow. He raised his sword, ready to plunge it down into her skull.

Bone crunched under steel. But not hers.

She stumbled back, her eyes struggling to focus on something, anything. A blur moved through her attackers, each falling one by one. With her vision blurry, all she could see was a chaotic mass of bodies, blurring into one another, blows punctuated by a flash of red.

Something caught her foot, and she tripped, falling onto the ground. One hand pressed itself to the ground. _Find something to anchor yourself._ The dirt beneath her fingers, her palm, was damp. The dirt was real. She could feel it compress under the pressure of her hand, yield under her weight. It was cold, colder than the rest of the forest. A pebble dug into her palm. The end of a twig poked against her thumb.

Her vision returned, slowly, but enough to watch the spectacle before her. If she died then and there, it would have been worth it. Worth it to see the legend himself in person.

If Elleran thought Hawkwing fought like a dancer, then the Bear of Shandalle fought like a mountain come to life. There was no grace in how he moved, no beauty to the combat.

With his mace in one hand, his other hand was free to grapple, strike, hold, pull and throw. She had never seen a bar fight before, but he fought like everything she imagined it to be like. Mace cracking down on the wrist of his opponent, he yanked the sword from their hand by the blade. He wielded the sword like a makeshift club, slamming the pommel into a hook-nosed man's face, before splitting his skull with his mace.

He batted aside a wide slash, like it was not a full-grown man swinging a sword at him, but a child swinging around a stick at a playmate. He closed the gap between them. That close, his attacker had no room to swing his sword. In one swift movement, he threw the man to the ground, unhinging his jaw with a casual backhand of his mace.

In the stories, fights had two men facing off, armed with but their swords and their wits. They would bow and exchange quips. They would flow from one form to another, moving with all the poise and finesse in the world. The Bear of Shandalle did not dance.

Soon, it was just him left standing, surrounded by a cacophony of pained cries. He stooped down to wipe his mace on a man's once-pristine coat.

"It's true," she managed weakly. She smiled. "All the stories are true."


	4. A Blip in the Histories

"Light, woman," came Laila's soft, wilting voice. Perhaps to someone else, that voice may have been calming. Beautiful, even. But to Alysella, it was nothing short of grating. "You really think that _this_ proves anything?" She indicated the scrap of paper held aloft by hair-like filaments of air. Alysella was at least grateful that she took care in handling the evidence, even if she took every chance she could to scoff at it.

"It does!" Alysella responded, doing her best to remain calm. "You know it as well as I do! You can see the name clear as daylight, Laila. Right there."

Laila Kindlin was as short as half a woman, but she was certainly irritating enough for two. She pursed her lips, and simply shook her head.

"A _primary source_ , Laila! And in prime condition." Laila raised an eyebrow at that last comment. In all honesty, compared to the state most of the things found from that era were in, the ink of that scrap of paper may as well have only just finished drying! "The name proves what we've read in the Thirteenth Depository."

"It proves nothing, woman," she waved her off.

"It proves, _beyond a shadow of a doubt,_ that Artur Hawkwing's secret general is real!"

Laila stood up from her table, perhaps in an attempt to meet Alysella's eyes. In truth, standing seemed to only take precious inches away from her. "If you are correct, then what does it change?"

The question made Alysella splutter. _What did it change? Light, was the woman mad?_ It took all of Alysella's will to keep those thoughts to herself.

"I see the look on your face," Laila said, gesturing towards her. She sighed. "I know what you are thinking. But think about it, Alysella. Let us assume that what you find does corroborate the secret histories. What then?"

"Then the histories are accurate, and," she took a deep breath. She left the thought unsaid.

Laila's expression softened, and the shorter woman reached out a hand towards Alysella. Alysella let the touch come, and welcomed the weight of Laila's reassuring hand on her shoulder.

They shared a moment of silence, surrounded there by a sea of shelves and books.

* * *

Cadsuane Melaidhrin had heard enough. Of _all_ the things she had to worry about, they decide that this was truly something she needed to hear.

"With all due respect, Mother, but..." A raised hand cut off the young Brown abruptly. Even Alysella Tendar, excitable as she was, knew when it was time to be quiet, and listen. Cadsuane had always known that the position of Amyrlin meant that she would have to deal with things like this, it was not every day that the world was in danger, or wars threaten to break out, or sisters were being murdered in their sleep. No, sometimes being the Amyrlin meant dealing with foolish disputes like this.

Of all the women who worked as a librarian, Alysella was certainly not the youngest to work in the White Tower libraries, there were plenty of girls aspiring to be one of the coveted few Browns allowed access to all that knowledge. But Alysella certainly had the most fire within her, even if it needed tempering from time to time. In truth, Cadsuane knew little of who she was, only that she would have easily found a prized position within the Greens or the Reds. But that was something that anyone could see.

This spirit only meant that she was bound to conflict with the more... reserved nature of the Browns she worked with, those who thought there was more to be found in ancient scrolls and manuscripts within the Tower than what could be found out in the world.

"Please explain to me, Daughter," she said, addressing the other woman standing beside Alysella, more a command than anything else, " _clearly_ this time, why you thought this was necessary to bring to me."

"I simply cannot have her running about, chasing down the Light-only-knows-what, wasting her time when she should be in the library!" Exclaimed Corinde Saldan, a tall, slender woman from Cairhien. Her position in the obscure Brown hierarchy was not entirely known to Cadsuane, but whatever it was, it was certainly high enough that it put her well above Alysella. Enough that she was demanding that the woman be _confined_ to the Tower. Barring that, Tar Valon. "I'm not sure what type of research she is up to, she will not reveal it even to me, but I do know that her actions come at a detriment of all of us who work in the library."

Cadsuane nodded as she listened, already having made up her mind about what to do. Corinde continued for a little longer, the details of which Cadsuane forgot as soon as the words had left Corinde's mouth. When she was finally done, Cadusane spoke. "You may leave now, Daughter. You," she addressed Alysella, "stay."

Corinde made a deep curtsey, before turning to leave. No doubt she wore a smile of smug satisfaction as she did so.

By this point, some sisters had the tendency to begin to blabber, to try to explain their side of the story. Even before she was saddled with the Stole, she knew that well enough. But, much to her surprise, Alysella remained silent. With Corinde's departure, she appeared all the more resolute. She seemed to stand taller, prouder. And, unlike most other sisters, she appeared ready to take whatever came to her. Her pale, sharp face was stony and strong.

"I do not care one hair for what Corinde would want me to do to you," Cadsuane said simply. "Phaw. Confining you to the Tar Valon, much less the Tower, hardly seems appropriate. I could chastise you, or send you to do penance for disobeying her, but that is Ajah business, none of mine."

Alysella did not relax. If anything, she seemed to puff up even more. She had already figured out Cadsuane's play. _Smart girl_.

"I do care, however, about your work regarding the Thirteenth Depository," Cadsuane continued. "Few women are allowed to access them. You are not one of them. You deceived me. I somehow accepted your vague explanation as a quirk of another Brown too preoccupied with her books and her papers. I will not make that mistake again. I do not appreciate being misled, Daughter. Explain yourself, now."

There was a moment of silence as Alysella appeared to be choosing her words carefully. "I have accessed the Thirteenth Depository," she said plainly, open about her clear disregard for Tower law, "including reading documents within the Thirteenth Depository regarding the time of Artur Hawkwing." At least the girl did not try to mince words with her. Cadsuane had enough of that to deal with as is.

"I have read the law, Mother, about the secret histories. Tantamount to treason, it said. But that was specified only for revealing the existence of the records. And I have not revealed knowledge of the records to someone who does not know about the records."

"And you think that is enough to not consider you a traitor?"

"My work is vital, Mother. If I do not pursue it, then no one will," she said, entirely self-assured in her statement. And perhaps she was not wrong. It was a difficult time for all, not just those in the White Tower. The damage of _Tarmon Gaidon_ would be felt for generations to come.

"And what is so important about the time of Artur Hawkwing. That is what you said. 'The time of Artur Hawkwing', not Hawkwing himself."

"The Bear of Shandalle, Mother."

"Phaw. Even I know about Hawkwing's general. Light, is this what your _research_ has been about? What is so special about him, Daughter, that you would try to label your treason as 'vital'?"

Alysella took a deep breath, and launched into a speech Cadsuane knew the girl had practiced a thousand times over. "With the revelation that Hawkwing's advisor, Jalwin Moerad, was likely to be the Forsaken Ishamael..."

"No," Cadsuane cut her off, "I want you to tell me why you thought this was worth it, Daughter."

Alysella stiffened, and for the first time since she had stepped foot in Cadsuane's study, she showed doubt. Then, with a sigh, she said, "Whoever this man was or did, he had his name stricken from all records. _All_ records, not just ours. His name, and his deeds. But why, it doesn't say. Not even in the Thirteenth Depository. There is something _missing_ , Mother, something big! A blip in the histories. And I want to know what happened, Mother."

"So, that is it then? _You wanted to know_. And for that, you have broken Tower Law."

"Yes, Mother."

"You have discussed this is one of the librarians of the Thirteenth Depository," Cadsuane stated. She had caught Alysella twisting her words, likely to save her friend from trouble. "Who?"

"Laila Kindlin, Mother, but I approached her first. She has no role in my actions."

"I know."

"Have you made any progress?" The question seemed to startle Alysella, interestingly enough. Did she come in here expecting to be trialled? Well, Cadsuane had entertained the notion, but there were far more pressing matters to deal with now.

"I have, Mother. My expedition brought me to a village..." Cadsuane cut her off again with another raised hand. She took a deep breath. Light, what was she to do about this?

"No one is to know about this, Daughter," she said, after a moment's thought. "You will be respectful to Corinde, _and_ apologise. You will have to be confined to the Tar Valon, not for long, but for long enough. Consider that penance for lying to me, girl. But you will continue your work as normal. I am sure you will not mind more time among the books. Light only knows that the Tower does not need to waste its time trying you for this. Phaw! Consider yourself lucky, girl. In the years before, if I had caught you, I would have dragged you to the Amyrlin myself. But..." She trailed off.

"Thank you, Mother," Alysella curtsied respectfully, bowing her head far lower than need be for even the Amyrlin. Cadsuane waved her off. "By your leave, Mother."

Cadsuane considered commanding Alysella not to mention a word of this to anyone, but refrained. The girl hardly needed it.

She had fire, certainly, but she was not one to blather. She could not care less if anyone else knew of what she did. She couldn't resist a mystery this big and this tantalizing. All that mattered to her was solving it.

But there was something else Cadsuane had picked up. She was unsure of what it was, but it intrigued her. It was certainly not _inconceivable_ that the girl was dedicated enough, or stubborn enough, to keep on the trail of Hawkwing's general, even hundreds of years after his death. But was there something else driving the girl?

Maybe she would have to look into Alysella Tendar.

A knock at the door took her out of her thoughts. She let out a deep breath, a sigh. That would have to wait for later. For now, Cadsuane Melaidhrin had had enough.

She was the Amyrlin Seat, and she still had a whole day left.


End file.
